


The Architecture of Flight

by loose_canon



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: AFTG Winter Exchange 2019, Brief Morbid Thoughts, Character Study, Flashbacks to Neil's childhood, Hogwarts AU, Hufflepuff!Andrew, M/M, Pakistani!Maryam, Slytherin!Neil, keeper!andrew, seeker!neil, slytherin!Allison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:55:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21840058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loose_canon/pseuds/loose_canon
Summary: Neil is the Seeker for Slytherin and the son of the Butcher. No one bothers him, but he is alone. In the infirmary, Neil reckons with the memory of his mother, the reality of his father, and the questions asked by one Andrew Minyard.It's winter. It's time to decide.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 52
Kudos: 444
Collections: AFTG Exchange Winter 2019





	The Architecture of Flight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MinyardTrash (trash__universe)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trash__universe/gifts).



> This is my AFTG winter exchange fic for @minyards-pipedream. They had a lot of great prompts. I ended up choosing a bit of an angsty Harry Potter AU. Here's hoping it's "lit as hell."
> 
> Thank you L for talking over ideas with me. All mistakes are my own.

Neil surfaces to consciousness and breathes through the agony shooting through his chest and back. It’s night, Neil’s second day in the infirmary. Or maybe the first? He’s not sure. Either way, it's dark. The December moon douses the room in a pale silver pool. Only a few weeks left until the winter holidays, and the weather has finally dipped into freezing temperatures. The fire is particularly feeble tonight; its heat barely manages to keep the chill from the hospital bed where Neil lays swaddled in crisp white sheets. Neil grits his teeth as the architecture of his torso knits back together.

He remembers: the dart of the Snitch, throwing himself through the air, figures closing in from both sides, and his frozen fingers wrapping around the metal sphere in what he hoped was a tight grip. It was too cold to tell. Neil barely had time to register Slytherin's screams of exhilaration and let the ecstatic energy flow through him before he was slammed into a goalpost with a sick crunch by both Gryffindor Keeper and Seeker. Neil gasped, unable to take in air, as pain seared his spine.

Next, he’s in the infirmary, only a few of his teammates dotting the room to congratulate him on another improbable catch to clinch the victory. Allison Reynolds, Slytherin Chaser and Captain, gives Neil a thorough dressing down, citing Neil's “epic stupidity” and insulting “stubbornness on a level that is frankly Gryffindor.” Is he sure the Sorting Hat said Slytherin?

 _Fuck off, Allison,_ Neil wants to reply, but his mouth is full of cotton and he only manages a small grunt. 

“Where’s your cunning, your sense of self-preservation?” Allison demands.

“ _Allison_ ,” a voice hisses, and Madam Pomfrey’s assistant Abby swims into view.

Neil snorts and tries to speak around the cotton. _No point in trying to save myself now._ His ears might be underwater because it sounds more like “O oin i wying o ave yeh ow.”

Allison tuts, but there's a hint of sadness in her haughty expression, so she must know what he means.

The other Slytherins must have disappeared when Neil wasn’t looking. He has the odd sensation of losing time.

Abby’s soft voice again, diagnosing Neil with a broken rib and fractured shoulder, sentencing him to a regimen of Skele-Gro and _at least_ two days bed rest. “No exceptions, Wesninski.”

Allison lifts a perfectly shaped eyebrow, her take on Slytherin affection. Her face is still smeared with mud, but she must have charmed her bleach-blonde coils before the game because they're still piled elegantly on her head.

The reality of pain rips Neil to the present. He inhales and needles stab his spinal cord. Nighttime, alone. Sleep waits at the edges of Neil’s vision, a comfortable haze, a wash of memories, the promise of discomfort dulled. Neil wants to resist, but his body needs to repair. The infirmary, a dim wash of palest blue, swims and darkens, and Neil drops back into unconsciousness.

* * *

He is a Wesninski, the Butcher’s son, Hogwarts’ very own pariah. He has no friends and no enemies. Teachers and students both maintain a polite distance, and even the most self-righteous Gryffindors know not to waste their time confronting him. No one wants their name to get back to the Butcher. 

Every once in a while Allison asks if Neil wants to sit with her, wants to visit Hogsmeade with the rest of her friends, but he always politely refuses. It's safer that way. No one bothers Neil. And Neil—and, by extension, Nathan—bothers no one.

There is, of course, an exception to every rule. The gang of purebloods, Slytherin elite, decides to recruit Neil in his third year. Neil feels their gaze and hopes they aren’t that stupid. The clump of shiny green and silver moves closer and closer—in class and at meals, daring glances at the boy with the scarred face, an ugly testament to what happens to those on the Butcher’s bad side. How does it feel to be a boy and a warning? Neil knows, but it’s not the kind of thing they teach you how to explain in school. Lonely. Familiar. 

The offer of friendship comes over dinner. The young woman with glossy brown hair and broad shoulders. She turns to Neil. 

“It’s a shame, really. Beating Hufflepuff on the Quidditch pitch isn’t even satisfying anymore.”

Neil wonders if she knows she's not on the team.

The boy across from her snorts. “I don’t know. I never get tired of beating Mudbloods back into the dirt where they belong.” 

Neil rolls his eyes internally. He might be a Slytherin, and his father might be a homicidal monster, but Nathan's reputation is built on his own gruesome acts of mutilation and murder, things he does himself, not some imagined blood superiority.

The young woman’s smile goes sharp. “Especially that fucking Keeper.” 

Neil follows her gaze to the next table over. A blonde young man stares back, expression implacable. Andrew Minyard.

“Disgrace to the sport if you ask me.”

Minyard locks eyes with Neil, and the gaze is so intense Neil wonders if Minyard is a Legilimens. But no, Neil’s had his mind invaded before, and that sense of sudden _other_ isn’t there. So Neil looks back. He knows what the blonde Keeper sees: a carbon copy of the Butcher. Dark auburn hair, blue eyes light as ice and just as cruel. An eerie facsimile distorted only by the map of scars on Neil's face and the brown of his mother’s skin. Neil doesn’t look in mirrors anymore.

He doesn’t know why the other students always assume he’s a blood supremacist. His tablemates have started to stare, and some of the Hufflepuffs as well.

The posh knot of students waits for him to weigh in. 

Neil sighs. “I’m pretty sure the only thing ‘pure blood’ gets you is generations of inbreeding with the same five families and a disturbing lack of intelligence. Or is your arrogance just willful self-delusion?”

For a second there's silence, then everything gets loud. The boy across the table splutters, his face stained red. The scene turns ugly.

"What did you say?"

The girl lunges at Neil, hair swinging, and Neil thinks she could probably wrestle him to the ground given the chance. Someone holds her back, but Neil’s attention has already swerved back to the Hufflepuff table. The Keeper in question eats his dinner with detached boredom, eyes on his food, as if nothing is happening, as if the Slytherin table doesn’t exist. Renee Walker, a Hufflepuff Beater, sits at Minyard's elbow. She watches Neil with a dark intensity. Walker's always given Neil the creeps. 

A wild blow has Neil moving fast. He catches it and considers for a moment twisting the offending arm until it pops from its socket then decides to reach for his wand instead.

“I will have no more of this." Professor Sprout, the professor on duty, flicks her wand and a loud bang erupts with a flash of white light. Everyone freezes. Her face is stern beneath a cloud of gray hair. "You three, leave Mr. Wesninski alone. Move to the other end of the table. Mr. Wesninski, try not to stir up trouble.”

Sprout's words are formal, but her tone hints that she wants to say more. Like everyone else, though, she's bound by the threat of Neil’s parentage. By the threat of who Neil will become.

Neil nods. "Yes, professor."

Neil's provokers sneer as they leave, adjusting their silky robes with feigned indifference. The noise level returns to normal as they resituate and blend into the rows of silver and green. Neil tries to remember their names, but nothing comes up. Chances are if someone isn't his dormmate or on a Quidditch team, Neil won't know who they are.

Neil eats in silence and glares at anyone who looks like they might want to talk to him, either to support him or tell him off. The few students who approach him quickly back away.

After dinner, Neil meanders through the empty corridors toward the common room, choosing a path without many people. Then he is yanked and slammed against the wall. His head rings and his vision swims. The brunette is in his face, flanked by the two other twats. They pin his arms to the wall and jab the tips of their wands into the tender skin of his neck. The sick scent of burnt flesh wafts past. Neil isn't sure if he's conjured it into existence or just in his mind.

“Not so mouthy now, are we?” the brunette crows. She looks delighted. Hungry.

Neil feels it spread through him then: bright anger suffusing his body. A jagged smile carves his face, the smile of the Butcher.

"Oh, you'd be surprised." He hasn't unlocked this part of himself at Hogwarts yet, but now that he's against the wall it's no trouble.

A teacher passes before Neil’s rage prompts him to lash out or the little group can get any spells off. The brunette is yanked back by her robes; a large man with a tired face interrogates her at arm's length. Neil escapes while the teacher’s back is turned. His hands shake with adrenaline, his father’s blood pounding in his veins, a dangerous and heady rush. 

Neil is the only one here with dirty blood, who carries the threat of his parentage in himself. Neil finally slows and the burnt smell fades.

* * *

Neil floats closer to consciousness, his torso a hall of anguish. Pomfrey and Abby tip something into his mouth, a liquid that bubbles like soda but tastes like stale peppermint and artificial red food coloring. The pain in his torso lessens. 

The infirmary ceiling spins, a horseless merry-go-round, Neil the sole rider.

* * *

He's in his dorm room, first year. His dormmates cluster together, investigating the silver and emerald hangings, the heater at the center of the room. They watch the fish swim by, tap fingers against the glass, chatter about the chances of glimpsing of a mermaid. Neil drops his duffel with a grunt and they notice him, the Butcher’s son. The silence is instant. Neil feels every inch of his skin, plain on his face and hidden beneath his robes: a patchwork of blades, a bullethole, an iron stamped on his shoulder. The Cruciatus doesn't leave scars on a person's skin, but it's marked Neil all the same. He thinks that’s why Nathan took up knives in the first place, long before Neil was born, why the Butcher dips his blades in poison.

Neil changes in the bathroom the first few weeks, cramped and furtive, but soon gives up. They’ve seen his face, the gnarls and crisscrossing lines on his hands. It’s not like they can’t guess what’s underneath his shirt. 

Again, the silence is total. Neil ignores it, reaches for his t-shirt and struggles into it. When he turns, three sets of eyes dart guiltily away and pretend to be engrossed in their own business.

By the spring term, Neil doesn’t hesitate, and when he’s chosen for the Slytherin Quidditch team in second year, no one comments in the changing room. Word gets around. 

It’s almost enough for Neil to forget that he’s a warning, that he’s been marked. He takes to the air, and he isn’t Neil. He isn’t anyone at all.

* * *

How does it feel to spend all your time alone?

No friends means no collateral. No one on the receiving end of the temper Neil inherited from his father, easy to ignite and vicious. No one else to die at Nathan's hand on Neil's behalf. 

The image of Neil's mother, beautiful and fierce, appears in his mind unbidden. Maryam Choudry Hatford. She never took her husband’s name.

When Neil returns from his first year at Hogwarts, he finds his father looking pleased, bordering on gleeful.

And Neil already knows. 

“Junior, you’re back.” Nathan leers over him.

“Where is she?”

Normally that sort of insubordination would earn a smack upside the head, but Nathan is too focused on the pleasure of sharing the news with Neil.

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” The Butcher's smile is rare and disgusting.

Neil blocks out his father’s voice and retreats into his mind as Nathan explains to him in cruel detail the manner of Maryam's death. But Neil knows Maryam didn't go down without a fight. Nathan still has a jagged scar from his temple to his jaw that no magic will heal or disappear. Neil lets his eyes linger there as his father speaks.

Nathan must notice, because his wand is in Neil's face. It's a crooked, harsh line. Familiar. Neil closes his eyes.

His memory of that summer is spotty. When he tries to think back, his body only remembers grief, fear, and engulfing pain.

Maryam wasn’t gentle, wasn’t kind. She loved her son in her own way: harsh fingers on his arm, shaking Neil when he misstepped, a cutting whisper.

“Focus, Abram. Tell me why you cannot fail.”

“Because failure is death.”

“So what must we do?”

“Adapt. Survive.”

“That’s right. 

Maryam marked Neil with her iron grip, her sharp nails, the back of her hand. But it was all to protect him, and those marks fade.

* * *

Neil is eight, full of fidgety energy. He sits cross-legged next to his mother on the floor. His father lounges on the couch, jeans and rolled sleeves a stark contrast to the suits perched straight-backed and stern next to him. 

Neil’s curiosity hasn’t been beaten and burned out of him yet. He wiggles and Maryam squeezes the back of his neck without altering her serene expression. 

Nathan notices, a flicker of displeasure. The men look, too. The air is thick with animosity. Neil will be beaten either way. His behavior from now till the end of the meeting only determines the severity.

The suits leave and Nathan sighs. Neil's mother tenses. She rises in slow motion and moves to the ironing board, picking up where she left off when the suits showed up unannounced. The iron sighs as she lifts and presses. Her eyes never leave the distance between her husband and her son.

Nathan stands. “Goddamnit,” he snarls. He flings folded laundry to the floor, wrestles the iron from Maryam. She grips the handle tight, refusing to release it.

“Nathan, don’t. Please," Maryam whispers. She doesn't cry, doesn't even bend. It doesn't matter.

Nathan wrenches the iron from his wife's grip and moves to his son. Neil doesn’t have time to process what’s happening before heat explodes on his skin. His screams tear his throat and an acrid scent assaults him, floods his mouth and his gut. A layer of skin peels from his shoulder, black on sizzling metal.

_No, no, no. Something good, something good._

His mother’s letter, the one she never sent. The reason she's dead. Not good, but private, intimate. Small.

_Abram, my son,_

_I've found us a way out. My family in Pakistan will take us in and protect us. He is not so powerful to be able to reach us there. Meet me in Hogsmeade at midnight under the next full moon. Bring only what you can carry. We will survive this together._

_Be careful. Until I see you, Your Mother_

The letter is tucked in his trunk, wrapped and hidden in the false bottom. Neil reads it before he goes home each summer, holds the paper gently, the edges soft with handling. He won’t let himself forget.

* * *

Neil squints. The sunlight hurts, aches in his skull and behind his eyes. 

He groans and lifts his arm to block it out, then tries to sit. Nausea climbs up Neil's throat and he holds still until the feeling passes, lets his eyelids rest. His head feels better when his eyes are closed.

Neil croaks a request for water and strong hands steady him, lift a glass to his mouth. 

The hand on Neil's back, the nape of his neck, isn’t Abby’s or Madam Pomfrey’s. It's rough and wide. Neil tries to open his eyes just the barest fraction, but he can only make out a blurry silhouette against the hateful sun. Someone short and stocky, hair cut close to the head on the sides. A smell like tobacco, like pine.

* * *

Neil is good at hiding. Over the years he has established various places to steal away, places no one else will accidentally stumble on him. Sometimes he gets the feeling Hogwarts wants to help him hide. There are doors that open just for Neil, hallways he’s passed in the company of others without noticing that widen at his solitary approach. Neil's favorite hideouts are little crooks and crannies that lead to the open air, where the castle breathes out into the Scottish cold. Those places are the closest Neil can get to flying when he’s not on the Quidditch Pitch.

Neil pushes the heavy door onto the fifth-floor balcony. This is one of his recent finds, a place so perfect, Hogwarts didn’t show him till his sixth year. It’s across the castle from the Great Hall, only accessible through a dark hallway past the staff living quarters. 

A rough highland wind rushes up and blows Neil’s hair around as he steps onto the balcony. He stops short and instinctively reaches for his wand when he sees the black-clad figure on the railing. The heavy door closes with a slam behind him, and Neil jumps. The figure doesn’t flinch or turn.

Neil lowers his wand and walks forward. Andrew Minyard dangles his feet over the edge, a cigarette hanging from his lips and beanie pulled low over his ears. The only color in his clothing is the yellow scarf wrapped around his neck.

“Minyard?” Neil says in a quiet voice.

“Wesninski,” the Keeper deadpans. 

Neil grimaces. He hates that name. “Just—Neil.”

Minyard turns and Neil shivers under his considering gaze. “Neil.” Andrew says the name slowly like he’s testing out the way it feels in his mouth.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of being on a first-name basis with the Butcher’s Son?”

Anger shoots through Neil, unbidden, tightens his muscles.

Andrew’s face shifts almost imperceptibly in what could be amusement or derision. “I thought you were above all that.”

"All what?"

"That." Andrew gestures in a wide arc toward Neil's body, cigarette smoke trailing in the air.

Neil exhales noisily and feels the anger leave him just as fast as it came. He surveys the view. The green has turned brown, but the landscape is still majestic. Neil's hopelessly messy hair whips around his face. Allison's been bothering him to get it cut or let her cut it. He wants to relax, to let the smell of the outdoors and brisk air take him out of his crowded mind. He doesn't want to think about his father.

Andrew returns to his original posture, his back to Neil, and Neil suddenly feels out of place, a trespasser.

“Sorry for intruding.” He turns to leave.

There’s no reply as the wind slams the door behind him. 

* * *

“Mr. Wesninski, welcome back,” Madam Pomfrey says in a crisp tone. “You’ve passed through the first night with flying colors. How do you feel?”

“Like crap,” Neil says.

Pomfrey nods. “Drink this, Wes—”

“Neil,” he interrupts. “Please. Call me Neil.”

“Neil, then.” Pomfrey hands him a bottle of red liquid. “Drink this.”

“Pepper-Up Potion? But I don’t have a cold.”

“Or professional training as a Healer, unless I’m mistaken,” Pomfrey says airily as she updates her notes and rearranges the potions on the bedside table.

“No ma’am,” Neil says. Pomfrey shoots him an odd look as he downs the bottle of Pepper-Up. Warmth fills his chest and moves out to his limbs. Neil can’t even find it in himself to be annoyed with the steam pouring out of his ears.

Pomfrey checks his bandages and mutters a diagnostic spell. She holds her wand over his skin, traces the scars and bruises. The spell glows alternately green and blue and Pomfrey continues nodding and muttering.

“The rib is mostly grown back, but we’re going to have to give you a supplementary round of Skele-Gro and tissue fortifier to protect your organs. It shouldn’t be as painful as the last twenty-four hours, but you will feel quite groggy until at least midday tomorrow.”

Neil groans in frustration. Outside the window, the day is clear. He wants to be outside. He wants to be flying. Instead, he drinks his potions and submits to the fog of slumber.

* * *

The next time Neil visits the balcony on the fifth floor, he finds it empty. He enjoys his solitude, the cooling wind of late autumn. He wonders where Minyard is, if he remembers that day in third year when the other Slytherins made fun of him. It wasn't the first time Andrew and the other Muggleborns were harassed by a long shot. Neil wonders if Andrew thinks Neil's a blood supremacist, too. Half an hour later, Neil's still distracted. He huffs into the chilly air; the fresh air is supposed to be clearing his mind. He gives it up for a bad job, annoyed with himself, and leaves.

Neil sticks to his other hideouts for a while, secret places that don't remind him of other people, don't remind him of anyone at all. Then he's rushing to the balcony, desperate to be outside, to cling to the edge and look at the expanse beyond the castle. There’s been a high profile disappearance. A Ministry official from a wealthy family, early 30s, making sweeping reforms and marked for greatness. She’s been gone two weeks, noted missing only a few days after announcing her plan to crack down on organized crime, a plan which dared to name specific syndicates and players, dared to name the Butcher.

Her picture is stretched across the front page of today's _Prophet_ , announced by a harrowing title: GUERRERA FOOT MAILED TO RELATIVES, SUSPECTED DEAD BY BUTCHER’S HAND. The spread includes a grainy surveillance photo of Neil's father in the corner of the page. It doesn’t capture Nathan well, but there’s no mistaking the cold malice in his eyes as he swivels to look at the camera. Even in black and white, Neil can imagine their exact shade of blue.

Before, Neil’s been able to imagine himself as one student in a sea of hundreds, cloaked in a pseudo-anonymity. Or at least apathetic acknowledgment. The new students always take a few weeks to quit their staring, but they pick up on the protocol surrounding the Butcher’s Son soon enough. The only real incident was in third year, and the brunette girl—is her name Carla?—and her followers have stayed far away ever since. Today, though, Neil feels a spotlight shine on him everywhere he goes. His presence brings immediate silence, cloying and uncomfortable. Neil feels like he’s suffocating, like he’s going to slip out of his skin. Allison’s gaze is heavy on him at breakfast, but at least Neil knows she isn’t judging him. Ravenclaw's Seeker and Quidditch prodigy, Kevin Day, watches Neil, too, face drained of color. If Neil weren't Neil, weren't Nathaniel...

Neil puts on an expression of detached disdain, or tries to, but by the end of second period, he’s desperate to be alone. To be outside. He breaks into a run and heads to the fifth-floor balcony.

Minyard sits on the railing, legs dangling over the edge, a tiny speck of black against a wide stretch of green and foggy grey. The Keeper looks down between his feet. Neil doesn’t have a problem with heights, but the sight is enough to give him sympathetic vertigo. 

Neil expects to feel annoyance rise in himself, but there’s nothing there. He walks to the railing and leans his folded arms on it. He lowers his forehead and lets the cool stone ground him, feels the hairs prickle on the back of his neck.

He stays like that for several minutes, then props his chin on his arms.

Neil is surprised when Andrew is the one to break the silence. “How’s that target on your back feel?”

“Familiar.” Neil sighs.

Andrew reaches into his pocket for a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. Neil’s gut shakes as Andrew tries again and again to light the cigarette, cupping one hand around the flame as the wind blows past, the other on the lighter. Andrew balances on the railing's edge, either not noticing or caring about how easily he might fall, how far down he would have to go. He’s rooted to the spot, like a statue, unmoving even in the wind until the cigarette burns.

“Can I?”

Andrew pauses in putting his pack away and holds it out to Neil. Neil walks to the back of the balcony to light up, then returns. It's dangerous to associate with someone else, a voice in Neil’s brain reminds him. Neil quiets it. He likes Minyard's silent company. It's comfortable; no expectations, nothing more than an hour or two of peaceful smoking and watching the Black Lake for the occasional waving tentacle of the Giant Squid.

At the far end of his view, tiny figures flit in and out of the Quidditch Pitch. Neil sighs again, and Minyard finally looks over. He follows Neil’s gaze. 

Neil lives for the moment of ascent into the open sky, the thrill of diving for a flash of gold. On a broom, Neil is fast and nimble, all grace and flow. He slides between Beaters, gives rogue Bludgers the slip, outmaneuvers the other team's Seeker, doubling back and floating on the wind. It doesn't matter who Neil is outside of this: his body, his broom, the Snitch, and the distance between him and his goal. Flying is a release, an escape. If Neil weren’t the son of the Butcher, Quidditch would be his life. 

“Junkie,” Minyard says.

"What's wrong with liking Quidditch?" Neil says. 

The blonde looks down and blows a thin stream of smoke from the side of his mouth. "You don't just like it. You're obsessed." His face betrays no derision, but his voice is flat. 

"So?" Neil presses.

"It's boring. It's just a game."

"You play Quidditch, Minyard."

“‘Minyard?' You said to call you 'Neil.'”

Neil won’t be distracted. "Do you not like playing Quidditch…Andrew?"

Andrew shrugs. "It's better than nothing. Something to pass the time."

Neil can’t contain his huff of disbelief. He's seen Andrew play. Half of the time Andrew floats in front of the hoops and watches Quaffles fly past without a twitch. But the other half of the time...Andrew is wicked accurate. He makes Keeping look effortless, as if he's simply waiting for the opposing Chaser to hurry up and shoot so he can deny them. When whatever force motivates Andrew kicks into gear, Andrew is a terror, an artist.

Andrew must read this in Neil's face. He sticks a finger in Neil’s cheek and forces his gaze back to the landscape. "Don't."

Neil dutifully shuts his mouth, but he can't help but want to look at Andrew again. He gives in and looks up.

The winter clouds have thinned, and soft light glints in Andrew's hair, transforming it to spun gold. From this angle, Andrew is a sky-backed effigy, solid and strong. Neil doesn't often notice other people's appearances, but it’s hard to ignore the fact that Andrew cuts a striking figure. Andrew is three inches shorter than Neil's 5'3" on even ground, but even then, Andrew radiates strength, solidity.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Andrew says.

But Neil is already queuing up his next risk. "Why do you play, then? Really."

Andrew's expression is blank as ever. "One-track mind. Boring."

Neil makes to protest, but Andrew holds up a hand.

"I...sometimes find it amusing to...deny people who think they're better than me." He cracks his neck with a jerk of his chin. "That, and Sprout said I had to choose between playing Quidditch or expulsion. So I chose Quidditch."

Several details Neil had previously overlooked slot into place. Rumors that Andrew fought his classmates for picking on his gay cousin, that he practically maimed them, that they didn't get out of St. Mungo's for weeks. _People who think they're better than me._

"You’re,” Neil pauses, “Muggleborn.”

"Yep." Andrew pops the final "p." "And that's all you get for storytime, Neil. You owe me."

“Owe you what?”

“Information." He faces Neil fully. "Perhaps I’ll start with your name."

“What, Wesninski?”

Andrew shakes his head. “The other.”

Neil understands. “I already have his face. I don't want his name, too. ‘Neil’ is—it’s ordinary."

"Neil," Andrew says, drawing the word out several seconds until it doesn't sound like anything anymore. He flicks the stub of his cigarette over the railing. 

Neil watches it fall and then the swooping figures of the Quidditch Pitch catch his eye. The familiar patterns and formations calm him, even as the need to play again tugs at his heart. 

"Your obsession is like blinders on a horse."

Neil grunts in confusion as Andrew pushes himself off the banister and stands beside Neil. Very slowly, Andrew raises his hands until they hover at the edges of Neil's vision, less than a centimeter from Neil's skin, blocking out everything but Andrew’s face.

"You think you're in control because you've chosen a focus, a goal." Andrew's eyes lock onto Neil's, molten amber flecked with warm brown, the outer ring a hint of green. "But really you've made yourself vulnerable by blocking out the rest of the world." Andrew illustrates his point by pushing Neil's chest hard. 

Neil stumbles until his back is against the castle wall. The wet stone chills him through the fabric of his clothes, but Neil barely notices. Andrew follows Neil back and anchors a hand on either side of Neil’s head. Neil can smell the nicotine on Andrew's breath and something behind it that reminds Neil of freedom.

"And yet—” Andrew leans forward a fraction. Something lurches in Neil’s chest. “—you still miss what's right in front of you." 

Neil lets Andrew stare, wonders if he sees the truth of what Neil is there. He keeps track of his breathing, willing each inhale and exhale to be steady.

Then, in one smooth motion, Andrew pushes off the wall and slips through the door without a backward glance. 

* * *

This is one of his earliest memories. Neil is small, three or maybe four. His father is gone, traveling for work. The harsh grip of winter hasn’t arrived yet, but the clouds overhead are heavy and full. The moisture in the air has frozen, drops in a light slush. 

“Abram, pay attention,” Maryam says in a near-gentle tone she will not use again.

Neil—Nathaniel to his father, Abram to his mother—is stuck, fascinated by the condensation slowly piling up outside the window. 

His mother snaps in front of his face. “Abram!”

“Sorry.”

“Pay attention to me now, and then we can go out in the snow later.” Her eyes aren’t soft, but they haven’t yet hardened to steel.

She lifts his right hand in hers and teaches him the words, a wandless spell of the “nontraditional” magic Nathan has prohibited Maryam from teaching his only son and heir. Maryam guides Neil's movements as he voices the words that feel strange in his mouth, and a small pulse of light emanates from his palm.

Maryam doesn’t smile, but her face relaxes. “A protection spell.”

Her son smiles, delighted by the light show. “Another one! Show me another one!”

She waves her hand and speaks another musical word that ends deep in her throat. She opens her fist to reveal a snowflake the size of her son’s palm.

Nathaniel gasps in delight and looks at Maryam with something like awe. There’s already a scar on his face, a small cut easily explained except that it's resistant to healing spells.

When Nathaniel can produce limited versions of both the snowflake and the protection spell, Maryam leads him to the snow-covered yard to play. She only gives him a few minutes and reminds him over and over to keep it down. Nathaniel leans his head back and looks up into the sky, watches the paths of the flakes as they fall. He wants to see where they come from. He wants to float with them. Maybe one day he’ll learn enough magic and then he can float up and away.

A security charm sounds from within the house.

“Let’s go, Abram. Your father’s on his way home.”

Dread leaks into Nathaniel's chest, but he keeps his gaze on the sky all the back to the house.

* * *

It’s night when Neil blinks into sudden, lucid awareness.

His memories are a sick reminder that if Nathan really wants to, he can pierce Hogwarts's supposedly impregnable security. Neil can disappear just like the Ministry official, no trace but whichever small piece of him the Butcher finds most entertaining to send to...to send to no one. He only has himself. Just Guerrera’s foot had been enough to know the Butcher's victim suffered under his blade, that Nathan prolonged her awareness as long as he could to watch her warp and writhe in agony.

And if Nathan knows that Neil is close to someone, to anyone...that could be their fate, too.

Not for the first time, Neil asks the nobody-in-the-sky why he has such a will to live. Anyone with a pinch of sense would know that Neil's best bet lies in a couple bottles of Dreamless Sleep. And who would blame him? 

Maryam. She would hit him so hard his nose would bleed if she heard him thinking like that. _Failure is death. Adapt. Survive._ Neil must have internalized the message wrong. For him, dying is failure. A stupid way to think about it, really. The odds of Neil surviving his father—especially with his mother gone—are slim to none. And what he will have to become to survive...he doesn't want to think about it.

A squeal echoes from the other side of the room, metal on metal. Neil scrambles for his wand in the dark. The handle of the infirmary's entry door jiggles and then clicks, and the huge door swings open. 

“Lumos,” Neil whispers. 

The light doesn't reach to the far corner of the room, but Neil can make out a humanoid shape in the contours of the shadows. Short, stocky.

Andrew steps into the room, casual as anything. Neil watches him approach in shocked silence. The blonde reaches Neil's bedside and crosses his muscled arms, towering over Neil once again. Neil wonders how he always ends up looking up at the five-foot Keeper.

“Nox.”

Neil and Andrew only talk during their balcony smokes, the few meetings after the _Prophet_ published the news about Guerrera. Neil sees Andrew at mealtime in the Great Hall, but only ever at a distance. Andrew looks at him with the same detachment he looks at everyone. And they don't share any classes. So why is he here?

Neil's enforced isolation is for the best. No one should know as much about him as Andrew does, and that only from observation and a few quiet conversations. 

"No visitors?" Andrew says.

"Oh, loads," Neil says, throat dry from disuse. "Line up to wish Wesninski well. Maybe he'll spare you when he inherits his father's empire of crime."

Andrew doesn't reply, only stares. Embarrassment climbs into Neil's chest. It's too late to be bitter about his solitude now.

"What are you doing here?"

"Collecting."

"Collecting what?" Neil asks, but he already knows. Judging by Andrew's expression, he does, too. Andrew said Neil would owe him...Neil can't afford to share the way that Andrew did. There's too much at stake.

"I already answered your question about my name."

Andrew scoffs. "That barely counts."

"I already knew you were Muggleborn."

Andrew stands for a while without moving. He's wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, all black except for a tiny Hufflepuff crest on one of the pant legs. Neil tries to relax into the quiet, but it presses down on him. He shifts in the sheets, the bandages suddenly itchy and uncomfortable.

Andrew watches Neil struggle, then breaks the silence. "You were wearing your blinders. And you got hurt."

"What?" Neil stops wriggling.

“You got hurt,” Andrew says slowly and gestures around the room as if Neil’s being purposely obtuse.

"I was playing Quidditch. Catching the Snitch is the goal of the game, remember?"

"Throwing yourself into harm's way isn't."

"Please, this is nothing." Neil tries to croak a laugh but it's painful.

Andrew curls a hand in the front of Neil's shirt. "That doesn't make it okay."

Neil meets Andrew's gaze, defiance in his voice. "I don't get it. Why do you care so much about what I do?"

"I don't," Andrew says, the words crisp and final in the suddenly cold air. He releases Neil's shirt. "You're the one who stuck your nose in my business. You showed up on my balcony and started asking questions."

"It's not _your_ balcony. What were you doing up there in the first place, anyway?"

Andrew crouches down until he's eye level with Neil. "That's going to cost you, Neil. And your debt is already high."

"I don't care," Neil says. He knows it's stupid and dangerous, but he needs to know. 

“What will you give me?”

"Anything."

Andrew takes in a breath and his chest swells, his face gleaming in the silver light. He looks into the distance for a moment. "Feeling."

"Feeling what?"

"Vertigo. Fear."

Neil sits all the way up in a swift motion that has him groaning. Andrew pushes Neil's shoulder back to the mattress. 

"Stay still," he warns through his teeth.

"Andrew, you're afraid of heights? And you play Quidditch?"

Andrew shrugs. "I'm afraid of falling. I want to see the rest of your scars."

Neil stills. "What?"

"That's my price. I want to see the rest of your scars. Now or later. Up to you.”

Neil hasn’t minded taking off his shirt in front of other people, but this feels different somehow. Loaded.

He reaches for the hem of his sleep shirt, but when he tries to raise his arms, the pain in his side doubles and he hisses. Andrew moves forward and holds out his hands, waiting for Neil's nod before he does the rest of the work for him, gently pulling Neil's shirt up and over his head, taking care not to bump his stomach or his chest, holding Neil still with one arm when he can. Tonight Andrew smells like tobacco and something tree-ish that reminds Neil of the way the wind smells when he flies over the Forbidden Forest.

And then Neil's shirt is off, and Andrew looks at Neil's chest, circles the bed to survey his back. Andrew's face is as empty as ever; only his eyes snap back and forth over the marred canvas of Neil's skin.

"Your father?"

Neil nods. "Andrew..." He wants the answer, but isn't sure if this is the time to ask. Still, Neil's need to understand pushes aside his careful rules of detachment and distance. He knows that if he gets the answer to this question, there's no going back.

Andrew takes his previous position and waits, completely still, his attention trained entirely on Neil.

"Why are you here? I mean, why do you talk to me? Why did you let me stay on the balcony? And why—why do you care if I get hurt?" Neil hates how reedy and vulnerable his voice sounds.

Andrew closes his eyes. "I used to watch you at the games. When we played Slytherin, I let in so many Quaffles watching you fly. You fly like it's the only thing that matters, like you don't care if you die. I’ll never feel the way you do about flying, about anything. But the rest of it...is familiar. And then in third year. When you said—" Andrew opens his eyes and looks straight at Neil. "Make a deal with me."

Neil scrunches his face. He didn't think Andrew even remembered the day those Slytherins called Andrew a Mudblood and a disgrace. "That was so long ago. You don't owe me anything. And what?"

"I know I don't," Andrew says. "Make a deal with me. Don't go home. Ever again. Come with me this summer. You can fly every day."

Neil feels his breath leave him in a rush. "My father—"

"Fuck your father. I'll worry about him. Pretend he doesn't exist." Andrew stands and walks to the other side of the bed where he can move without bumping the bedside table. He crouches to Neil's height and holds his hands to Neil's face and recreates the blinders from weeks ago. "Forget your father. Forget your life back home. Think about what you want, about how you want to live. What do you see?"

Neil inhales and lets his gaze roam the planes of Andrew's face, empty to most, but Neil can see determination in the set of his jaw. Hazel eyes reflect the light from the fire. Neil feels his chest expand in a rush of something new, something like affection. But—

"He'll kill you."

Andrew clasps the sides of Neil's face. "I said focus. What do you see?"

Neil looks. And imagines. Behind Andrew is the window. In the silver light, tiny flecks of snow float like iridescent spores. "You. And the whole sky."

Andrew leans forward. "That's right." He's in Neil's space now and Neil finds himself drawn to Andrew, the feeling in his chest pulling him to Andrew like Andrew's the only source of heat. Andrew's hands are steady on Neil's face, dry and warm, gentle but firm.

"Neil," Andrew says.

"Yeah." Neil's answer is light and distracted.

"You're going to stay with me and let me worry about your father. Yes or no?" Andrew is so serious, so sure of himself. Neil can't help but trust him.

"Yes." Neil leans a bit forward at the word, and his eyes drop to Andrew's mouth. When he looks back up, there's something new in Andrew's eyes.

Andrew is silent a long moment. "I want to kiss you. Yes or no?"

Neil makes to answer immediately but Andrew cuts him off—

"Think about it a moment. Yes or no, Neil?"

Neil closes his eyes and waits. He's sure. "Yes."

Kissing Andrew is heartstopping, like the moment Neil realizes he's taken his broom as high as it can go and it wobbles in the air before he plunges down with a whoop of exhilaration. Like breathing in fresh air that smells of forests and damp earth, like holding your breath underwater until your head gets dizzy. Andrew's mouth opens and Neil tastes him. The sour tang of cigarettes and something sweeter, chocolate frogs, maybe. The weight of Andrew’s tongue against Neil's, the heat of his breath. Andrew is solid, grounding. But kissing him is like flying.

Neil fists his hands in Andrew's shirt. For a moment Neil feels a wave of emotion sweep through him and his eyes will fill with moisture. Thankfully nothing happens and their kissing goes on uninterrupted.

Andrew leaves soon after, but he's back the next morning and at lunch and again at dinner. Madam Pomfrey kicks him out before curfew, and Neil wonders if she knows that Andrew will just be back once she's left for the night. 

This time Andrew stays and carefully slots himself next to Neil, careful not to jostle Neil's ribs. The bed is thankfully big enough to fit them both. They kiss again, for longer, and Andrew cups Neil's face again, the gentle touch at odds his toneless responses to Neil's questions, with the intensity of his mouth. He smells like tobacco and pine.

Neil is falling asleep against Andrew's side when the snow starts in earnest. The fire is brighter tonight and Madam Pomfrey has hung garlands about the beds. Andrew watches Neil silently.

"It's snowing."

"Observant."

"Are you staying over the holidays? At Hogwarts, I mean?"

Andrew rolls his eyes. "I always do. Plus, I'm not going to leave you alone so your father can get to you."

Neil pinches the sheet between his thumb and forefinger. "He doesn't know anything's wrong yet. He won't do anything."

Andrew curls a hand around Neil's chin and gently pulls Neil's attention to him. "I'm not going to leave you alone."

Neil sighs and is about to lay back down when he has a ridiculous idea. "What if I want to go outside and see the snow? Will you leave me alone to do that?"

Andrew rolls over and looks. The windows are big, but they don't open. The snow falls in earnest now, clumps of white building a strange landscape.

Something shifts under Neil and Andrew is standing up and pulling on a coat he must have worn in. He hooks his arms under Neil's knees and around his shoulders. 

"Hold on to your covers." 

Neil leverages his weight around Andrew's shoulders with one arm and clings to the hospital blankets with the others. 

Andrew lifts Neil so slowly that by the time Andrew is standing straight again, Neil can feel Andrew’s legs shaking with the effort. Andrew doesn't complain once.

Andrew pads through the castle, seemingly uncaring if they're discovered by Filch or his feline familiar. But no one blocks their path and they arrive at the front door without being caught. And then Andrew is carrying Neil onto the lawn until they stand at the top of a slope that rolls down to the Black Lake and, to the east, the Groundskeeper's Hut and further, the Forbidden Forest. Everything is transformed under the blanket of white, a landscape both alien and familiar, unsettling and serene.

"I wish I could fly overhead and see how far it goes. All of the snow, I mean." 

Andrew grunts but his eyes stay trained on the horizon. The two of them remain there for several minutes, Neil clinging to Andrew as the cold slowly steals their body heat. Neil reaches a hand slowly into Andrew's pocket, waiting for Andrew to protest, and, when he doesn't, pulls out Andrew's wand. The wand feels friendly in his hand, and when Neil casts a Warming Charm, it blankets them both. Neil waits for Andrew to look down, to blame Neil for freezing both of their asses off, for stealing his wand. But Andrew is still, mind lost somewhere Neil has yet to discover.

Neil can’t help himself. "What are you thinking?"

Andrew finally looks down. His expression doesn't change and his tone is flat when he says, "Not thinking. Feeling."

The memory of Neil's mother resurfaces, and Neil replaces Andrew's wand then reshapes the quiet word, just a whisper. There’s a tingling in Neil's palm where an intricate snowflake appears. Andrew goes completely still beneath him, eyes intense on Neil's palm. Neil lifts his hand and blows gently on the snowflake. It takes to the air, twirling in the white until Neil’s can’t follow it anymore.

Andrew looks at Neil like Neil has just slid into existence himself. Neil smiles and shrugs. “My mother. She taught me a protection spell, too, but I don’t remember it.”

Andrew’s expression returns to a blank stare. “You don’t have to. That’s my job now.”

They return to the infirmary without incident and slot next to each other, sides pressed together for body heat. Neil keeps his hands on his own chest, only asks if he can brush Andrew's hair back from his eyes. Andrew nods a yes, and Neil continues to stroke his fingers through Andrew's hair until Andrew bats his hand away with a soft, "junkie."

"Just looking at what's in front of me."

"Shut up."

"Me?"

"You. Neil." A pause. "You don't have his face."

"But my ha—"

"You don't." Andrew's tone is firm. "You don't look like him. You look like you."

In the quiet of the infirmary, the snow falling in thick layers outside, Neil feels like he can tell his secret, like Andrew is sturdy enough to hear it. Neil's voice is low, almost a whisper. "Sometimes I can feel his anger. I can tell that some part of me is like him, some part of me wants to hurt them."

Andrew props himself up on an elbow. "And some part of me is like the abusive, addicted deadbeat who birthed me."

Neil tries to protest but Andrew covers Neil's mouth with his hand. 

"Don't argue, junkie. So we come from shit. So what? Does it matter when you're here? Does it matter when you fly?"

Neil shakes his head and chews on his lip as he thinks.

"Then be here."

Neil looks into Andrew's amber eyes, sure, knowing, certain. "Okay," he says. "I am."

It’s snowing, and Neil is in pain and he has to wait to fly, but now he has plans: plans with Andrew, plans to fly every day. Maybe he can sit with Allison now, talk to Kevin Day one day, even if everyone else thinks he’s a monster in the making. Even if they know it. Neil still doesn’t know what he is, what he'll be. Just that—finally—he isn’t alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated. :)  
> I'm on tumblr at @sapphicrenee


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